


I Will Be Your Anchor

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, just a bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 22:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20235046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: I needed to write something gentle.





	I Will Be Your Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write something gentle.

“Your diagnosis, doctor?”

“Um, head trauma? No, probably a skull fracture, there’s blood from the ear. Um. Molly could-”

“John?”

“Hmmm?” John averted his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, I’m fine. Really fine.”

John pushed himself to his feet, stumbling a bit as he straightened his back. His concern piqued, Sherlock reached out to steady him, but John pulled away. He narrowed his eyes to observe John step aside, stop, and stare into the middle distance. He was not at all certain his doctor was as fine as he declared.

Greg appeared at his side, forcing him to split his attention between the two men, listening to Greg and keeping a weather eye on John. 

“Sherlock? Okay, gimme?”

“I’ll need to, no, I’ll text you. I need more time.”

“Sherlock.”

“Lestrade,” he snapped, his intensity focussed on the DI. His retort was sharper than he’d intended; he continued with a softer reply. “I need more time.”

“Sherlock?”

Patience exhausted, the insult on his tongue died as he turned to follow Lestrade’s gaze. 

Just a short distance away, John sliced the air with his hand, as though waving away insects. Sherlock’s heart skipped several beats as an uneasy edge took root in his mind.

“What is that?”

“I don’t know, Greg, and I don’t like not knowing. We need to go. John needs to be home.”

“Is he okay?”

“He will be.”

Deciding that an approach from behind was not wise, Sherlock kept a more than ample distance from John’s reach, watching him for any sudden movement as he circled around to face him.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, his gaze settled on the empty space to his right side, just beyond himself. He rolled his neck as though it were stiff. “Sherlock? Oh, there you are, you look kinda fuzzy, no, is there fog today?” His voice trailed off. "I missed you."

There was no fog, Sherlock noted from where he stood to John’s left.

“I need to get back to examining the body, to help you. Come on, Sherlock.” John reached out as if to touch what only he could see, turned and took two shaky steps before Sherlock stopped him.

_Hallucinations._

Sherlock curled his palm and fingers to the crown of John’s head. “We’re done here, John, time to get back to Baker Street. I can text my conclusions to Greg from there.”

John looked up at him, confused, his blue eyes clouded, unfocused. “But..”

“Come, John,” he said, grasping John’s hand to lead him away before he could protest. At the main street, as always, a cab magically appeared. Opening the door, he pushed John inside with a hand to his bum.

“Hey,” John protested. “Don’t push.”

“Hush, John. Be good.”

Whatever John said next was lost in mumbles. He leaned his head against the cool window and closed his eyes.

While he observed his doctor, Sherlock gathered data. Red-rimmed eyes, smudges beneath. Suspected hallucinations. When he added the obvious tremors in his hands, it all became clear. Sleep deficit. Three days with little or no sleep for himself made no detriment. For John, who was beyond his capacity after twenty-four hours, had managed to hide his symptoms for the sake of the case. 

Or he’d been too engrossed in the case to notice that his partner and best friend was struggling.

The cab slowed as it approached the kerb at their Baker Street flat. 

“John.”

Sherlock paid the fare, slipped silently from the cab and circled around the rear. Opening the door carefully so John wouldn’t topple out, he levered him to his feet and half-carried him to the door.

Inside, at the bottom of the seventeen stairs, John seemed to rally enough to mount a small protest consisting of his Captain Watson warning glare and a half-hearted push to Sherlock’s chest. John stopped on the second stair, turned to face him and seemed to take exception to the guiding hand Sherlock had at the small of his back.

“I can climb the stairs, Sherlock. I’m not a child.”

_Then don’t behave like a stroppy child._ The thought flashed through his mind, but never passed his lips. He said, “Yes, John,” instead.

John’s deadly smile was next after stopping on the fourth stair. “And don’t patronise me either.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, John. Of course not. You’re a bit grumpy, but that’s okay.”

On the sixth step, when John stumbled because he’d turned to shoot another glare for the hand at the middle of his back, Sherlock had had enough.

“Oh, for god’s sake, John, shut up and get on with it.”

“What?”

In only a bit less than a graceful manoeuvre, Sherlock lifted John into a fireman’s carry for the climb to the second landing. John was small, but navigating the stairs while carrying him was difficult. Sherlock’s legs wobbled and his back ached when he finally stepped through the door. 

“Put me down, Sherlock, or so help me I will-”

“Do what John?” he forced out between heaving breaths. “Shall I chronicle..the symptoms I have observed that indicate..you are on the edge of exhaustion even as you fight to prove otherwise?”

“I said put me down,” came his feeble reply.

“For someone so small, you are surprisingly sturdy.”

John sighed a world-weary sigh as only he could. “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

Surrender.

Sherlock carried him the rest of the way to their room, tumbling John gently onto the bed. Any protest was over before it. Sherlock felt dark blue eyes watching his every move as he quickly undressed John to his pants and vest and tucked the duvet around him.

“Sleep, John. I won’t be far.”

John captured his wrist when he tried to step away. It wasn’t in his heart to disappoint. Toeing out of his shoes, he exchanged his suit and button up shirt for his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and slipped in next to John.

“I’m here. Just sleep.”

“Make it stop, Sherlock.”

“Stop what?”

“The room is spinning. I feel like I’m floating. Don’t let go, Sherlock,” he said in a breaking voice.

“I won’t. Hold on to me, John.”

John curled into him, his face pressed against his throat. Sherlock held him, tethered him with tender strength as John’s tears dampened his skin.

“I promise I will hold you forever.”

“All right.”

“I will be your anchor.”

“Uh-hmm.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s temple. “As you are mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to scrub456 for teaching me how to use italics. TADA!!


End file.
